The Man Who Was Thursday

Before one of the fresh faces could appear at the doorway,
Gregory's stunned surprise had fallen from him. He was beside the
table with a bound, and a noise in his throat like a wild beast.
He caught up the Colt's revolver and took aim at Syme. Syme did
not flinch, but he put up a pale and polite hand.

"Don't be such a silly man," he said, with the effeminate dignity
of a curate. "Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that
we're both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick."

Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he
looked his question.

"Don't you see we've checkmated each other?" cried Syme. "I can't
tell the police you are an anarchist. You can't tell the anarchists
I'm a policeman. I can only watch you, knowing what you are; you
can only watch me, knowing what I am. In short, it's a lonely,
intellectual duel, my head against yours. I'm a policeman deprived
of the help of the police. You, my poor fellow, are an anarchist
deprived of the help of that law and organisation which is so
essential to anarchy. The one solitary difference is in your
favour. You are not surrounded by inquisitive policemen; I am
surrounded by inquisitive anarchists. I cannot betray you, but I
might betray myself. Come, come! wait and see me betray myself. I
shall do it so nicely."

Gregory put the pistol slowly down, still staring at Syme as if he
were a sea-monster.

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"I don't believe in immortality," he said at last, "but if, after
all this, you were to break your word, God would make a hell only
for you, to howl in for ever."

The mass of the anarchists entered the room heavily, with a
slouching and somewhat weary gait; but one little man, with a
black beard and glasses--a man somewhat of the type of Mr. Tim
Healy--detached himself, and bustled forward with some papers
in his hand.

"Comrade Gregory," he said, "I suppose this man is a delegate?"

Gregory, taken by surprise, looked down and muttered the name of
Syme; but Syme replied almost pertly--

"I am glad to see that your gate is well enough guarded to make it
hard for anyone to be here who was not a delegate."

The brow of the little man with the black beard was, however, still
contracted with something like suspicion.

"What branch do you represent?" he asked sharply.

"I should hardly call it a branch," said Syme, laughing; "I should
call it at the very least a root."

"What do you mean?"

"The fact is," said Syme serenely, "the truth is I am a
Sabbatarian. I have been specially sent here to see that you show
a due observance of Sunday."